Daddy, Don't Forget the Pie
by reflecting
Summary: She's started, survived & thwarted an Apocalypse, bagged herself her very own Angel of the Lord nowadays more like an Angel of Himself, considering his new gig as Devine Sheriff and she's thirty-three fucking years old and simply too old for this shit. Too old to be accidentally knocked up by her Holy Winged Boyfriend, been through too much to let something like this cripple her.


**Pairing:** Castiel/always a girl!Dean

**Notes:** AU, Apocalypse averted. Seriously sort of painfully fluffy and all that. This is anti-angst right here. Feel free to take a break and immerse yourself in rainbow and kittens with a side of porn.

English isn't my first language so I apologize for wonky grammar/sloppy typos. Enjoy, hopefully!

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**Daddy, Don't Forget the Pie**

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Of course, she thinks, of course it wasn't going to be planned. Of course it ended up being an accident, because since when does things ever go according to plan, no matter how vague? And how many times had serious shit gone down without any kind of foreshadowing? Infinite amount of fucking times, that's what.

She stared at the plastic stick lying broken on the other side of the bathroom (which wasn't that far away let's be honest; she could nudge it with her toes from where she was sprawled on her ass in a totally sexy and not at all shocked-bordering-on-hyperventilating pose). She stared and stared, and thought it would be awesome to have some of Sammy's mind whammy right about now if only to set the thing on fire. It might help. She'd take anything at this point, seriously. Anything.

She's started, survived and thwarted an Apocalypse, bagged herself her very own Angel of the Lord (nowadays more like an Angel of Himself, considering his new gig as Devine Sheriff) and she's thirty-three fucking years old and simply too old for this shit. Too old to be accidentally knocked up by her Holy Winged Boyfriend, been through too much to let something like this cripple her but this is so much different than anything else she's ever been through. She's only ever destroyed thing, only ever accidentally screwed up and broken shit. She's never slipped up and _created_ something.

Something innocent, something with potential, something _good_. Cas, she thinks desperately. Something _Ca's._ Something _hers._

It's enough to make her scramble over to the toiler and gag, acid bitter in the back of her throat and chest heaving. She remembers once, when she'd been trying to stumble awkwardly through puberty with a mostly absent father who called her Dean and kept her hair short, and a little brother who's poked at her chest and asked if she was hurt. She remembers high school, remembers how slowly guys started to look at her differently, and how she'd been given flowers for the first time. It'd been a cheap collection of wilting daisies that she hesitated to call a bouquet, and she'd taken one of their empty tin-cans and filled it with water and kept it under her bed because the nightstand was for bullets and hexbags, and the windows were lined with salt, and the table filled with papers and books, and her dad had never had much patience with such things. The flowers wilted and died after two days; lack of sun, lack of time to re-fill the water. She'd planned on keeping them anyway, press them in one of her books, but by the time they were heading out again with her wrist sprained ready for the next hunt, the next motel, the next school, she'd already forgotten about it under the bed from worrying over Sammy's bruised arms (nasty ghost).

She thinks of failing to nurture, thinks of forgetting, thinks of how easily she destroys everything good around her. And she's _terrified._ Because she _can't do this_ but it's already done, and she thought life was finally done with her, thought the Universe couldn't have anything worse to throw at her than it already had. Apparently not.

Taking a deep breath, she struggles to stand, flushes down what little her body had managed to reject, and goes through the motions of rinsing her mouth with shaky hands. Her breathing is pretty steady by now, her movements controlled as she disposes of the Plastic Stick of Doom, but her heart feels like it's tearing itself apart and her stomach is heavy with dread. The fear of failure hang heavy over her head and pushed her shoulders down, making her hunch into herself, but Deanna Winchester had never been allowed to stop going because she's afraid, because it hurts. She exists the bathroom and sinks down on her bed, staring at the wall, dragging a hand down her face. She can't even take a shot of Jack, or open a beer. Christ, she's going to have to start actually listening in on Sammy's Healthy Diet Monolog from now on. She'd have to put up a home-base, or settle down with Bobby.

Unless she miscarried, because after the shit her body's been through, she's surprised she's apparently still fertile. Shit. Shit, she can't think about this, she can't. She still doesn't know quite what's worse; losing something because she fucked up, or having something taken from her without her being able to do anything about it. Probably the latter. Fucking up on her own meant she could keep fighting to fix shit, she thinks, but how would she fix this if – no, she can't.

It's a bad time to note that apparently Cas' angel mojo didn't work as a convenient contraceptive, and oh hey, Humans and Angels? Can obviously crossbreed. Or something. Maybe. Or was it Jimmy's because-? Holy shit. No, just no.

She lets out a scream of frustration, twisting to punch the mattress as hard as she could. Better than a wall, or a window. "I'm on a fucking rollercoaster. A rollercoaster of Shit. I'm dipping in and out of Shitland," she says to the empty motel room desperately. "I need to kill something."

Or someone, because she'd been on the fucking pill goddammit, and this shit shouldn't have happened. But if there were chances for things to work against her (or in this case, not work at all), then they fucking would. She should know this by now, dammit.

She was going to have to call Cas. And Sammy. And Bobby.

But first, Cas.

If she could bring herself to do it. Any minute now. She just needs to remember where she put her phone. It's definitely not in her pocket, nope. She conveniently forgets she can pray, because she's got a lot of her mind, and she's not freaking out still and stalling. Hoping to wake up. Or something. Nope.

Falling back to lie staring at the ceiling, Deanna groaned. "Fucking shit." She wondered how long she could get away with ignoring the issue; she'd been doing well with the morning sickness she'd totally blamed on bad diners. But Cas was due back any day now from his Big Important Showdown (a.k.a. the Conference of the Stupid Stubborn Archangels), and if the dude could look into her eyes and _see her soul_, she had a feeling the new spark of life in her gut might make at least a small blip on the Angel Radar. Maybe she should wait and see, have him find out and try and tell her, and then act surprised. She's totally not considering this plan for the merit of getting a read on Cas' reaction to being an _actual_ Father Who Art in Heaven.

In the end she knocks back a mental shot of Jack and clears her throat to prepare for a prayer, still sprawled on her back on the bed, feeling a little bit better with the possibility she's going to interrupt Something Important. She refuses to be the only one suffering for this.

"My Castiel who art in Heaven," she begins, suppressing a wave of hysteric giggling coming on because if she started now she wouldn't be able to stop, and it might actually end in tears. She hates tears. "I'm pregnant. Congratulations, you're going to be a father. Bring pie."

She imagines Heaven coming to an abrupt stop, freezing in time or something equally dramatic, and Cas' face to match. She's second away from breaking down into the previously mentioned giggles, but the welcome distraction of Cas crash-landing in her motel room with a bag of deliciously smelling pie saves her. A bit, but not by much, because he actually _crash-landed._ As in, sort of tripped all over himself and knocked down a chair and several books, scrambling to get a hold of himself and reach her at the same time. She'd managed to sit up by then and his face was hilarious; his ridiculous blue eyes wide and jaw slack. His hair was sticking up in more places than usual, as if he'd actually run through a thunderstorm or something, minus the rain. He looked messier than normal overall. And slightly freaked out.

Good, she wasn't alone in this. Which, duh, but it was taking some getting used to. To be a them, an us, to have a we and to have a theirs and an ours.

"Deanna?" He's breathless, and reaching for her, dropping the pie next to her on the bed to frame her face in his hands. She grins, pulling on her bravado, though it's shaky.

"I know, you leave me alone for like a month," she says, cocky, but he's not having it. He's leaning in and kissing her, only pulling away when she's breathless to lean his forehead against hers. "Are you all right?*" he asks, of course he does, and this time she smiles for real. A weak one, a little wobbly, and she's still catching her breath.

"It's…unexpected," she replies. She almost whispers, "I'm afraid, Cas. What if I screw up?" because she still finds it shameful to be like this – a failure, a broken solider – but she can't hide from him and lately she's found that she doesn't want to. She's beginning to learn he makes it better, and it's always worth it in the end.

"We won't," he says in reply and she loves that, adores that about him. Somewhere, somehow, he pulls at her stubborn determination to never give up, to fight for what she wants. She smiles a little bit more steady now, titles her head for another kiss, and reaches out to pull him down with her so he shields her with his body; limbs arranged to cage her in. She doesn't feel trapped, even if she is, in a sense. She'll never be able to escape him, she's found herself tied too tightly to him, but she's stopped the pretence of struggling against them, even if she pokes at them at times. She wouldn't be who she is if she didn't.

"Holy fuck, Cas," she whispers as his mouth travels down her neck. "I'm going to be a mom."

His breath hitches and he nuzzles the crook of her neck, mouths at her shoulder. "Yes. You'll be amazing. You _are_ amazing. Deanna..." He trails off with a moan; her fingers roaming his body and slipping his pants open with expert fingers. She's only clad in one of Sammy's gigantic t-shirts and a pair of cotton panties that were rapidly growing damp as Cas worked his hands under the shirt to cup her breasts and kept working magic with his mouth. She wasn't in the mood for a slow build, was flying high on emotions and adrenaline and her head was spinning; he smell literally divine and he's been gone for too long (always too long, even just a fucking day, she's so far gone she'll never get back). She wants to mimic his crash-landing, wants to fall into him like he'd stumbled towards her, and let go of the buzzing ball of energy that's taking up space she doesn't have beneath her skin.

Impatient, she pushed his pants and boxer out of the way enough to tug his firming erection free, squeezing it eagerly to hear Cas growl in her ear and nip at the tender skin beneath it. It's rough without anything slick to easy the way but she starts up a rhythm to have him harden to full potential, squirming underneath him and moaning in approval as his hand changes course and slips between her legs to simply pull her panties to the side and allowing her to guide him inside. With a rough thrust of his hips he's inside and it's fucking glorious, the pressure lighting up her nerves and pushing her breath out of her lungs in a cut-off whine. He latched onto her lips, kissing her deeply and running his tongue alongside hers, sucking it in and pushing it back, fucking her mouth. She's bracing her feet on the bed and meeting his short, hard thrusts with glee and notes the thud of the forgotten bag of pie hitting the floor. She doesn't give a shit.

He's got one hand around her breast, alternating between squeezing it and going for her nipple. The other is pulling at her hair, making her tingle in all the right places and she's got her own hands busy grabbing his ass (a fantastic one), pulling him closer and in response he increases his strength with each thrust. She's forced to move one of her hands up to brace against the headboard of the bed because they've moved up, but she doesn't mind because he's latched onto her neck again and is sucking a bruise into her skin; lips and teeth and tongue.

His hand has left her hair to sneak between them, thumb pressing roughly against her clit and she's shuddering through an orgasm almost directly. He keeps going, and she's not recovered, simply climbing high again and it's intense, just how she wants it right now, just what she needs. He's mumbling in Enochian, transforming her name into something worshipful, voice deep and hoarse with sex. She can't stop making hitched, cut-off gasps and whimpers as every push into her practically forces them out along with her air. Her thighs and stomach are tingling and she's blissfully stretched; nerve endings on fire and hot pleasure licking up her spine and making her twitch and squirm under him. He's bracing himself on his knees, straightening up a bit and using one hand to lift her hips up with him, but never pauses. His eyes are heavy lidded and she misses his mouth on her but it's a gorgeous view; only his trench coat and suit jacket are missing, discarded somewhere along the line, and his loose tie is moving with him. She gives up on trying to keep up and moves her feet from the mattress to cross behind his back, securing him between her legs, and settles for simply grinding against him.

She's begging him to come, to fill her up because she loves feeling him drip out of her even if it gets uncomfortable and sticky and incredibly distracting at times. He's got a thing for watching it slide down her thighs as well, tells her he'll strip her down later and that she won't be dressed for a while. She scraped her nail down his chest for that, catching at his nipples, the sensation no doubt dulled by fabric but his groans all the same, hips stuttering a bit as she's clenching around him. His thumb works her up, she's twitching through a bigger orgasm than the last and she's moaning his name, pulling her hands back to fondle her own breasts, impatient with the shirt that's in the way because she want him to _see_ but the tease of imagining her hands under the fabric rolling her nipples between her own fingers seem to drive him on. She squeezes around him again, demanding him to wring another orgasm out of her, make her come again, because she knows it'll be so much more intense, exactly what she wants.

She knows he's slipping away when the blue of his eyes starts to burn that much brighter, and the lines of his body blurs with a crackling edge of power. Sometimes she hints his wings, sometimes a light bulb is sacrificed for the greater good, and today it's both. She comes before him, but not by much. Her legs are on a lock-down; her body arches and frozen in the wave of her pleasure. She trembles and squeezes around him but he's already following her, dropping her and pushing her into the bed; claiming her mouth and swallowing their moans and gasps and words. She feels him pulse inside and it makes her shiver in delight, makes her embrace him and pull him even closer, raking her hands through his hair and pulling lightly. He doesn't collapses, he almost never does, but stays covering her without actually crushing her. She revels in his warmth, his solid chest a pleasant pressure against her own soft, heaving one. They're winding down together, kisses slowly losing their edge and morphing into something gentle, lazy and content.

He's mojo'd their clothes off and have them under the covers, and she hums in approval, allowing him to press against her still but slipping out of her heat as he rolls to the side. It makes her moan and bite his lip, which causes him to huff a laugh and she's grinning. "Just what the doctor ordered," she mumbles, because she can't take shots of whiskey anymore or indulge in beer and nothing but grease. This, however, this she can indulge in all she wants. Thank fuck for that.

Cas stays silent for a while brushing her hair out of her face and twirling a lock around a finger absently. She takes a deep breath, snuggled into his embrace and rests her nose against his collarbone. "We'll need a home-base now. I'll have to get a job so I won't go stir-crazy."

He hums. "We should get you settled at Bobby's. You could help him man the phones, do the research."

"Maybe do some work in the scrap yard as well," she continues on his suggestion. "Could start fixing up cars, bring in some extra money."

"We'll get a place near Sam. He could stay with us and save money for board."

She grins, well and properly fucked, feeling lightheaded. "Then he doesn't have to worry about the rent as well and can concentrate on his studies. And I'll have someone to bitch at constantly. And a baby sitter."

There's an amused noise that rumbles through Cas where she's pressed against his chest, and she wonders at how easy it's all suddenly falling into place. "I love you," she says, because sometimes she think she doesn't do it often enough and it build up inside until it spills out unexpectedly, in moments where it's too much. Cas kisses the top of her head, hand warm and gentle as the caress her back. "I love you too," he replies with a voice that should be reserved to writing the laws of Heaven and singing its praises.

She thinks they've battled Heaven and Hell together and they'll manage this too.

"Is it going to have wings?" she asks suddenly, a mental image of those baby cherubs from back before she met an actual one (she shudders at the memory), imagining a chubby baby with Cas' messy hair and huge blue eyes, a smattering of freckles from her and tiny, fluffy white wings from his or her back.

It's sort of achingly adorable, in a freaky way.

"Yes but they won't manifest for a while, and it'll be easy enough to master how to switch between corporeal and incorporeal existence."

"Huh," she says. "Well, that's good I guess. I'd rather not squeeze out a pair of wings along with the melon. Things could get…stuck."

She blanches at this but reminds herself she's been through worse – somewhat of a mood killer, but Cas' is still stroking her back and nuzzling her hair. "It'll be fine, I won't let anything happen to you. Either of you."

His voice is filled with a bit of wonder, as if it's dawning on him there's another person on the way, and suddenly he's rolling over to cover her again and is framing her face with his hands. Again. He stares intently at her, making her blink. "I do not think I have the words to describe what I am feeling right now. I have created something with you. I want to fly, I want to parade you through Heaven. I want…" He trails off, unable to voice his thoughts and kisses her instead. She can feel herself blush at his words but ignores it and puts steadying hands on his hips.

Grinning, she breaks the kiss and land a soft peck on the tip of his nose. "But first," she says, "Pie!"

He laughing and burying his face in her hair, breathing her in. "Yes, pie first." Because she sort of agreed to let him fly here somewhere, anywhere, even if she hates it and she deserves some fucking pie. He isn't complaining, feeds it to her gently, handles her with awe and she finishes it up quickly because it's making her eyes sting and her heart feels too big. She still can't get used to how he makes her feel, but it's a good discomfort. It's distraction enough for when he takes her flying over oceans and mountains and forests and cities. She can't hear them, but somehow she knows Heaven is rejoicing and Cas is the loudest voice of them all.

Sammy's squeal and Bobby's misty eyes at the news are enough to rival it, she thinks.

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A/N: I am sort of gagging on my fluff. Omg what have I written.


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